Where the storks fly
by carneliandragon
Summary: By His Majesty Henry VIII's orders, Charles Brandon has been sent to Calais to command the English troops. Then an unexpected encounter changed his life. Six years later, he still remembers one soldier...Slash. Charles/OMC, Charles/Margaret.
1. There is no place like home

_Warning: Contains slash, male/male pairing, please don't read further if you find it offending._

_Pairings: Charles/OMC; Charles/Margaret_

_Special Thank You to __**ladyredvelvet**__ and __**Aesthetic Narcissist**__ for inspiring me to write!_

_The title of the story is inspired by a hauntingly beautiful song about soldiers, **The Storks** by **Mark Almond**, from his album **Heart on Snow  
**_

_**

* * *

**_

**March, AD 1523. English occupied territory, north of Calais, France**

Deep blue eyes open slowly. Only to be reflected in the equal blueness. No bewilderment, he knows exactly where he is. Sixty leagues away from Suffolk, on the other side of the Chunnel, waking up to yet another blistering windy grey day outside, wrapped in countryside that is slightly flatter and slightly browner than he had left behind. And yet he's never felt more at home.

Lost in the pool of another's eyes, like mesmerizing tidal waves on the seaside of Calais. A broad grin spreads across his lips as he arches up, brushing against the warm, taut, welcoming body hovering above him.

Their lips meet again. Tongues probing. Hands grasping. Teasing. Exploring. Finger tips tracing familiar patterns on skin. Bodies writhing. Clinging to one another. Like they had always done. Inseparable. Like that first time they fought together, side by side, swishing and slashing high and low, for England, for what they believed in. This is also a battle of sorts. Their tongues are the warriors, their mouths the battlefield. Only this time, it is a war that they would both win.

Sweating. Gasping. Murmurs of empty promises. Silent screams of pleasure. A delicate balance between softness and hardness. Between desperation and desire.

Faster. Rhythmic. A pulsating ache that threatens to send both of them over the edge. Frenzy. Gazes meeting. Eyes expressing what words never could. Hearts pounding. A quick inhale of breath. Oblivion. Bedsheets entwining them. Still entangled in their embrace. Panting. Numb.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Six years later. Suffolk estate.**

A loud voice of his wife yelling orders and clanking sounds of pottery being moved in the kitchen drifted his way informing Charles of Margaret's whereabouts and the aroma of herbs and spices wafting up the stairs told him that she must be in the process of preparing their supper. He stopped at the threshold of the kitchen and watched her absently for a moment, before entering. The fire was cracking in the hearth of the stove casting merry shadows that danced and jumped across the portraits on the walls, quite in discordance with a rather glum and sour expression on the face of Henry VIII's sister. A flagon and a goblet on the table beside her and a flush blossoming on her slightly gaunt cheeks told him that she has been drinking. Charles tried to suppress a sigh but failed instead closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall, letting Margaret's maids brush past him. They curtsied on their way out of the kitchen, and left the two spouses alone. They had served her for many years and were used to her temper by now, her reknown Tudor temper that flared often and especially when Charles would return home from London, bringing his wife the news of her royal brother. Like today. Charles should have been used to it for she never really bothered holding back. There was a time, when they were newly-wed and Margaret yelled at him, it made him yearn for their nights together and he would shut her up with kisses, silence her with his adoration. How long ago it seemed. How simple, how uncomplicated a time it was. How like a fairy tale that had gone wrong. Charles swallowed hard. Deep inside, he knew without a doubt that every time she would scream at him now, he deserved it. Every slap, every shove was his fault, for he knew the truth.

He took a few strides to reach the chair, seating himself at the table furthest away from the fire, yet near Margaret. It had been a long day. A very long, painful, and difficult day. Something he didn't want to have to go through again in a long time. Although he knew, as the King's loyal confidante and friend, that he would be experiencing a day similar to this one for at least a few weeks. Henry's irritation with Rome, and his dissatisfaction with the way his "Great" matter was being handled, began to make itself felt on those closest to him.

Of course, it hadn't helped that although she heard her husband's footsteps enter from the hall, Margaret didn't even raise her eyes to look at him as she sat there. She had just shrugged her shoulders and continued to stare at her plate and roughly chop her roots and beets.

Charles leaned his head against the back of his chair. He could feel it inside, feel the emptiness, the apathy, growing into a void between them, and he didn't know what he could do about it. He wasn't even sure that he wanted to do anything. It was only a matter of time before there were no feelings left.

An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen. He'd had it all figured out, exactly what he would say, how he would say it, but now, sitting across the table from her, he didn't quite know how to begin. He stared at the ceiling as if praying for patience. Every time he would bring up the subject, Margaret would cut him off. Still, he knew his King's indulgence wouldn't last forever. And what then?

He looked at the Princess. Her eyes were darting restlessly around the room, everywhere, it seemed, except in his direction.

_"Henry wants you back at court," _Charles' voice was measured and calm when he at last spoke,_ "you are his sister afterall."_

Leaning her chin on her hand, Margaret looked at him a moment before she decided to indulge him with an answer. _"How can I return when he flaunts himself with his slut." _She looked incredulous. Her mouth was twisted in it's usual curl of disdain. _"I would be seen to be approving of his ridiculous liaison." _

Charles expected no less but with every word she spoke, he could feel the frustration rising inside him. _"Margaret, you and I must stay in the king's good graces or we are nothing. Let him marry who he wishes." _He shifted in his chair impatiently, gazing at his wife as though appealing to her common sense in the matter, and to her understanding of both his and her situation. Margaret's eyes did not meet his. They looked away, down at the vegetables she was cutting.

_"That was always your philosophy, wasn't it Charles?" _she asked with more than a hint of reproach in her voice, shrugging her shoulders._ "So very cynical." _Finally their eyes met, and their life together ran through both their minds. _"Is that why you keep company with that devil Boleyn?" _

Charles frowned. No, that wasn't the reason and she ought to know him better than that. He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. He wasn't cynical, at least not cynical enough to think that Henry had chosen this course simply to get his way, and he was resigned to stand by his King no matter what.

_"You liked him enough once, when he helped us back to court..." _he retorted, his voice as sharp and defying as hers now, a wry grin on his face at her hypocrisy. "_Or were you just being cynical?"_

Margaret reached for the flagon of wine, refilled her cup and took a deep swallow._"I didn't see all of his game." _Her speech was becoming slurred._ "Now I do. I despise him."_

_"So do I." C_harles grunted truthfully. The stale smell of alcohol drifted to him easily, and he could feel his own mouth become dry, his pulse pounding in his temples._ "But I hate Wolsey more...It's a marriage of expedience."_

_"Rather like ours."_

He didn't expect these words to come out of her mouth, at least not then. He could tell by the look on Margaret's face she was waiting for some kind of response. He could not bear the vast amount of pain in her eyes. He could not bear the fact that he was the one who caused her all this agony. But there was nothing he could do to help it, to make things better. His passion for her was dead. It had existed, surely, when he first married her, those looks of his, the sudden violence of his touch when there was any excuse for the slightest contact with her, or had it all been some curious dream?

_"No, I loved you," _he edged closer to her, neither of them flinching at the past tense he used. And then, the sight of tears in her eyes, of so much hurt, made him remember more, although it was painful. Memories of that one defining moment, when the love he bore her switched from present to past, and the memory of the person who caused it. The memory so deep that it was embedded into his very soul, gashed upon his heart like a battle scar.


	2. More than a memory

_Many, many big thanks to all reviewers for your kind words! Hope this update is worth your expectations._

* * *

_  
_

**February 9, AD 1523. France.**

Just eight miles east of Calais lies Grey Nose Cape, a place where the chalked cliffs of the Côte d'Opale are steepest and tallest. As part of their military campaign, this location was selected by the French for a watchtower and a fort with it's own walls and moat. From this place, they could plan the attack on beaches many miles away and direct their defense in case of a retreat. Making the position even stronger is the marshy terrain, across which siege engines could not be moved. Needless to say, for any military advancement in France, this point had to be taken out.

Where strong winds and seagulls reign, upon the cliffs whipped by the pewter gray sea that stretched out past his line of vision stood a silhouette of a warrior, blade drawn. He gazed upon the stormy waters for a moment or so, silent, with his jaw set in determination and a pensive look in his eye. The sky over his head was overcast, and the birds were flying over the foaming sea, uttering their shrill cries. Feeling a gust of wind over his shoulder, Charles Brandon turned away from the horizon where on a clear day he could see a line of white cliffs of Dover. With a shake of his head, he started up the low cliff path, the longer grass brushing against his boots, spiky marram grass softly spangled with pale flowers, sea pinks and thrift and white sea campion, and he sighed.

The tough job of taking out Grey Nose Cape, was assigned to him. It was almost as if he could still feel Henry's hands gripping his shoulders and he could clearly hear the king's voice, echoing in his memory, "I have much faith in you, Charles. The French must be taught a lesson in humility. I want you to take down the fort and tickle Francis' pride." He could still feel Henry's smile all over him. He would lay down his life to serve him and ensure his King's victory, and Henry knew it.

It has now been a week since Charles stepped off the ship on the shores of Calais. After a week of scouting and preparing his men for the assault, fifty fishing vessels carrying long ladders had finally arrived. With these, the troops under the Duke's command moved in to scale the tall cliffs. Other boats brought stone-throwing catapults and several cannons, giving the men a way up. Now that they stood looking out on a land of marshes and some lines of smoke rising into the pale morning sky, showing the enemy's stronghold, the English army was facing a harsh battle...

**March, AD 1529. Suffolk estate.**

"_Don't play the fool, Charles. It doesn't become you._" Margaret's words resound in his head minutes after she left the kitchen, picking up her skirts, and not looking back at him.

No, he could never fool her.

Charles thinks savagely that they could be married thirty years and would never share the connection like he had with that one soldier who had served under him and whose name he still whispers into his pillow on those nights that he spends alone.

He knows Margaret feels no satisfaction as she sees him grow more tautly miserable and withdrawn every time he comes back home from court ever since the war has ended. They would greet each other and she can read the plea in his eyes for her to say nothing as he sees in hers that he could never fool her. Margaret has that, at least - even if nothing more. But the Princess could never understand what could bind the soldiers to each other - or understand that a possessive woman would slowly hollow out a man like Charles.

Laughing mildly to himself, Charles finally pours himself some wine before he moves toward the fireplace, sinking heavily into his deep chair. He sits staring blankly into the fireplace for quite a while, not seeing the flickering flames as he drinks deeply from his glass without tasting it or truly knowing what he's doing. He'd wanted to spill some French blood last night, wanted it so badly he could taste it. Hatred twists in his heart, and memories long past scour him like a cleansing fire, peeling him back layer by layer until he no longer can distinguish between pain and acceptance.

Hands clench the wine cup, and his head lowers, as he lets the memories wash over him in a bitter storm, wearily letting them drag him down. And as he angrily tosses the now empty cup away, in those memories...he starts to drown. He can see the eyes, he can feel the smile, he can hear the laughter, always. He remembers the touch, he remembers everything and too much, and he thinks it will surely drive him into madness, yet, he can't let go...

**February 10, AD 1523. France.**

The clash of swords echoed through the sky of Côte d'Opale, as he battled with a French soldier atop a cliff. The ground was treacherous, full of cracks and slippery, moss-covered stones. The smell of blood wafted in the air above the battlefield.

Charles fought with deadly intent, his strokes precise, paying no attention to the stench of the nearby pile of corpses. To him, his enemy was little more than a rabbit that needed to be pinned down. He moved carefully, deftly avoiding the quicker Frenchman's slashing strokes, returning his own whenever his opponent left an opening.

They were well matched. Perhaps too much so. Though both fighters breathed with effort and wore the sweat of their efforts, neither had gotten close enough to make the first strike. The Frenchman jumped forward, his sword held at an angle. Charles brought his arm up, meeting the blade with a shock he felt in his shoulder.

Suddenly, he mis-stepped and felt his foot slipping on a pile of nameless gore on the dusty ground. His enemy attempted to use the moment to his advantage, his sword tip sneaking past his guard, sweeping down on him in an instant, and Charles' shield barely rose to deflect it, failing completely to angle correctly. The Frenchman scratched at the Duke's face nearly slicing his cheek.

Charles quickly recovered his footing and charged at his opponent. "In the name of the King! Are you prepared for a taste of the English blade?", the Duke yelled as he drove his sword through the enemy's stomach. But as the man fell, he pulled Charles with him and they both fell down the cliff.

Charles grabbed the edge sharply and watched as the other man smashed into the rocks below, where the surf churned violently, the water white, just like milk, swirling before it turned pink with blood, taking some of the froth back, and washing the Frenchman away with it...

"Your Grace!" Charles heard a thick Yorkshire accent as a soldier dove to the ground and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him up.

"Soldier, allow me to fall." Charles ordered, looking up at the soldier. He was young, younger than Charles for sure, and his eyes, alive with keen intelligence, reminded him of Henry's, except that they seemed to emit a genuine warmth from within. They were the colour of sapphires held to the light. Blue, deep, and just now they were filled with obvious apprehension. He was shorter than Charles too, by maybe one or two inches, but it was hard to tell since he was crouched down, peering over the edge of the crevice at the Duke.

"Never. I would follow through the abyss if it meant serving you." The soldier pulled Charles to safety with all his might.

The Duke's brow furrowed slightly in surprise, caused by the other man's words. "What's your name, soldier?" Charles asked, as he climbed up and stood tall now, brushing the rubble off his chainmail.

"James Stibbins, your Grace."

"Well, James! I commend you for your sense of duty. Now let us continue this fight!" Charles shouted as he took his sword from the ground and charged alongside James into battle.

**March, AD 1529. Suffolk estate.**

The logs in the fireplace have died out, no longer bright orange red, but now dull smoldering black covered in white ash. He doesn't know how long he sat there, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, staring at the fire in silence with his glazed eyes, but he thinks it was probably just a short time, because he forces himself back together, forces the tears back, forces feelings away as is his habit.

The ghosts of the past are gone.

Charles knows better than to think that they won't return. They torment his days and nights more often than he would like to admit. For now, though, it seems a long way off.

The replayed memories, satisfied for now, slipped to the back of his mind, to return to haunt him another time. Yet, a sigh slips past his lips. He needs James...not for comfort, of course...but to remind him that he, Charles, is still alive...


End file.
